


Accusation

by thought



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-18
Updated: 2015-09-18
Packaged: 2018-04-21 10:12:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,848
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4825016
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thought/pseuds/thought
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Accusation: Origin<br/>late Middle English: from Old French, from Latin accusatio(n-), from accusare ‘call to account’  </p>
            </blockquote>





	Accusation

The datapad comes with a fresh cup of coffee, prepared the way she likes it. Smith doesn't salute once he's handed it over, just turns away with that quiet, benign smile and walks away. You can keep time by is footfalls, hard rubber against cracked tile. One two, one two, one two. Carolina finishes the coffee before she gets up to the conference room.

Vanessa is already there, fiddling with the projector. There's mud on the knees of her pants and three pencils have constructed cozy nests in her hair. She smiles at Carolina when she walks in, but it's the automatic, impersonal smile-- the one that, if you don't know better, would make you think she's been waiting to see you specifically all day and is honestly delighted at your a rival. Carolina hadn't known better for the first couple weeks.

"Did someone break the projector again?" Carolina asks, setting her things down on the table.

Vanessa blows out air between her teeth. "The projector, serving as a metaphor for the government, economy, and moral fiber of seventy percent of this planet, is in a state of being constantly broken. We can only patch it with hope and tears."

Carolina blinks slowly. "How long have you been awake?"

"It's Wednesday."

The meeting is supposed to start in five minutes, but Carolina's growing accustomed to the obnoxious tendency towards lateness that everyone in the New Republic seems to cultivate. She settles down in the chair to the right of the head of the table, straightens her stack of datapads. There're efficiency reports from Wash that she needs to look at (read: stole from Doyle's desk the last time she was in his office and will probably give back eventually) but she hasn't made it past the first page before Smith's mysterious datapad becomes too much of a curiosity to ignore.

The first file is a note, hand written by stylus in a careful, clear penmanship that is exactly what she would have imagined his writing to look like. The next file is a letter. This is typed, dated February 2550.

Ivan,  
I hope this letter finds you well, though I fear what I have to say will change that. I am sure you have been wondering why you have not heard from Riya over the past weeks. Part of the reason is, as you may have noticed, that communications on the outer rim have been experiencing higher interruption and delays than usual. I suspect that the UNSC is finding ways to filter even our Chatternet traffic and that soon unmonitored communication will be a thing of the past.

But I digress, and I admit for selfish reason. For it is not only communication difficulties that prevent Riya from writing you. I am sure by now you can guess what I must say. We were planning to return to chorus with a shipment of Covenant weaponry three weeks ago. On our way we were contacted by a local farmer on Quartz. He was being ordered to vacate his land so that the UNSC could build a factory, and wanted to insure that his seeds and equipment went to a good home. I know that you do not believe us, but Riya and I remain sure that Chorus must take all steps possible towards self-sustainability. We were passing directly by Quartz, and the pick up would put us perhaps twelve hours behind schedule.

We had not been at the farmer's home for more than ten minutes when the attack came. UNSC anti-terrorism personnel, I suppose. With the armour the soldiers are nothing more than machines, truthfully. They act as if we are not even human, as if we are animals to be slaughtered-- or perhaps insects to be swatted aside. These I remember clearly-- they were all brightly coloured, like the child's building blocks in the living room of the farm house. The farmer and his family were killed in the initial attack. Riya and I tried to get away without being noticed, but there were only open fields.

I managed to get away. I am staying with a mechanic in one of the towns nearby, but I do not know when I will find a ship that will take me home. Riya was not so lucky. I swear to you if there had been any way to give my life for hers I would have done so, though we both know that if it were her writing this letter she would say the exact same words.

I confess I do not know how to end this letter. She did not suffer, the shot was clean. I don't know what was done with the body. I hope that is of some little comfort.

I hope that I will see you again, my friend, though at this point I am not hopeful. Give my love to the children-- assuming John hasn't gotten arrested in a protest or Sarah hasn't blown herself up with a chemistry experiment.

Yours  
Anantha

 

The first thing Carolina thinks is that this must be a piece of fiction. The diction is far too refined for an Inni smuggler, and no one attempting to send secret communications would be stupid enough to use real names and locations.

The second thing she thinks is that she remembers that mission.

Not well, mind. she remembers pushing York on his ass in the mud and then both of them trying to hide the evidence when reprimanding the twins for playing around five minutes later. Remembers Wyoming and Niner getting into a debate about horses, or cows, or... some sort of livestock on the way back to the MoI. Remembers how she and Wyoming had lorded the fact that they were the only ones who knew where eggs came from over everyone else for at least the next three weeks. She doesn't remember the people. She doesn't remember the purpose of the mission.

She wonders if she can still hack into Freelancer's records. Thinks she must have written up a mission report-- she has an approximate date, she could probably hunt it down. She'll need an actual computer terminal, preferably something with a hardwire connection. She pushes her chair back, trying to remember the smell of fresh hay in the lockerroom.

"Carolina," Vanessa says, and it's sharp enough that it's probably not the first time she's said it. Once Carolina focuses on her she puts a hand on her arm. "What's going on?"

"I need to look something up," Carolina says. Her fingers have cramped where she's holding Smith's datapad.

"I thought you had everything prepared already? I was told there were spreadsheets." Vanessa mock-shutters.

"It's not about this," Carolina says.

"Ok, so can it wait? Everyone is going to be here any minute and your contribution is kind of important."

"I need to know--" Carolina shakes her head. "I don't remember the mission."

"Ok," Vanessa says. "Sit down. Tell me what's going on."

"Not right now," Carolina says.

"Carolina," Vanessa says. Carolina sits down. Vanessa perches on the table, just far enough so Carolina doesn't feel crowded.

"Lieutenant smith had family with Insurrectionist ties."

Vanessa shrugs. "Probably. A lot of us do. Almost everyone, depending on how you're defining Insurrectionist."

"He provided me with documents that give conclusive evidence that I-- my team was likely responsible for the death of one of his family members. His mother, I think."

Vanessa nods. "I'm sorry. Not surprised, but sorry. Why did he show you this?"

Carolina still can't identify any emotional reaction in herself. She needs to find that report. "He asked if it was necessary," she says. She doesn't show Vanessa the datapad. It seems somehow like a betrayal of trust.

Vanessa frowns, rubs a hand over her face then lets it fall to rest on Carolina's shoulder. "That was unfair of him. I don't think any of his family were Federalists, so it's understandable, but I'm sorry you're having to deal with that."

"What are you talking about? I think he has a right to know if I murdered someone he loved for a good reason."

Vanessa slumps a bit. "There's no way to quantify the value of a life against the value of a belief. No safe way, at least. The obvious corruption of Freelancer aside, did you believe that killing Insurrectionistss was the right thing to do?"

Carolina nods. "I did. I still do-- they killed first."

Vanessa waves a hand. "You know my opinions on that. My point is, Lieutenant smith's family member believed that what she was doing was the right thing, and you believed that what you were doing was the right thing. We've been fighting a civil war for years, Carolina. Most of us have had to fight people we love, be it with words over the dinner table or with guns across the battle field. If you start to agonize over what you've done as if it were something you did purely out of spite or cruelty, you'll never be able to pull yourself out of it. Soldiers kill people. It's the reality, and every time we pick up a weapon we have to make the choice to live with the consequences."

"And here I thought you advocated non-violence," Carolina says, instead of addressing the idea.

Vanessa drops her chin to her chest, squeezes Carolina's shoulder hard. "I did," she says. "I want to say I still do, but as much as circumstance forced my hand it didn't force me to pick up a gun and fire it, or to lead an army of kids knowing half of them probably wouldn't make it through."

"The last desperate struggle of outraged and exasperated human nature, right?" Carolina says.

Vanessa huffs a laugh. "Would you like a cookie?"

"Would you like me to pour this coffee over your head?"

Vanessa lets her hand slide to squeeze the back of Carolina's neck affectionately. "You say that like you'd let a cup of coffee sit full for more than three minutes." She slides down off the table. "We're all responsible for our actions, for the people we've hurt with those actions, but at doesn't mean they were the wrong actions for us to take at the time. None of this is new to you, I know."

Carolina can hear voices approaching in the hallway. She tips her head, very briefly, to rest on Vanessa's hand. "I'll talk to Smith," she says. "He has a right to ask, and he has a right to an honest answer. Maybe we can bond over mothers who died for what they believed in." It's a joke, but Vanessa doesn't laugh. She looks like she wants to say something more, but the door swings open and Carolina straightens up, shrugging out from under Vanessa's hand.

Vanessa runs a hand through her hair, brushes the mud off her knees, strides to the front of the room. Carolina is thinking about putting on her armour as a choice. Carolina is thinking about machines, about weapons and soldiers. She struggles with categorization. This is not unusual.


End file.
